


you shimmy shook my bone

by fallfreely



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Vampire AU, implied ot3, prompt fill fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfreely/pseuds/fallfreely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn goes on the pull, and catches something he didn't expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you shimmy shook my bone

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be 3 sentence fic for the challenge over at tumblr. It, uh, got considerably longer.
> 
> Everything can be blamed on [this girl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/), I take no responsibility for anything ever.
> 
> Standard disclaimers about this being a total non-representation of reality apply!

When the bouncer waves Zayn past the rope without so much as glancing at his very expensive and very fake ID, he thinks maybe he owes Liam an apology.

The hickey he’d given Zayn this morning feels like a bullseye throbbing low on the column of his throat, feeling bigger than it actually is, bigger than the shape of Liam’s mouth, even, and the ache of it still feels sharp, like it had when Liam had first latched on there, fingers digging in low on Zayn’s back at the same time, holding on for dear life as Zayn had gripped the headboard with white knuckles and thrust into him.

Biting is normally Liam’s kink—that they don’t really talk about—not Zayn’s, and so Zayn had winced at the mirror when he’d climbed out of the shower and seen it, the bruise purpling in under the tan of his skin, and he’d said, “Dammit, Li, I look like a fangbanger,” in a grumpy way.

And Liam had shuffled up behind Zayn, arms winding around Zayn’s waist and tucking against Zayn’s shoulder despite the fact that he’s still dripping wet, and Liam had kissed Zayn’s neck a few times in apology. Then he’d ruined it all by quirking his eyebrows in the mirror at Zayn, saying, “You should wear that black v-neck to the club, yeah?”

Liam’d had a point, obviously, if the reaction of the bouncer is anything to go by. And Zayn doesn’t think it’s just his imagination when he feels eyes on him nearly as soon as he gets inside, twisting his way through the tangle of writhing sweaty bodies—most of them human—trying to get up to the bar; Zayn tries to keep his shoulders loose, not tense up under the crawling prickle of predatory eyes on his skin.

He doesn’t like the idea of drinking on the job, but he orders a shot of Cuervo just to get the scent on his breath, and almost as soon as he’s tipped it back Zayn gets his first bite—so to speak.

The guy doesn’t look like a typical fanger, at all: instead of being waify and pale, he’s tall and broad-shouldered, skin flushed with color like he’s been dancing for hours. But he is one—Zayn knows that for sure just by the way he moves, the unhurried way he turns around to prop his elbows on the bar, his legs looking miles long in tight black jeans as he crosses one ankle over the other. Only vampires can do that, move like syrup and honey, like they have all the time in the world; when you’re immortal, Zayn reckons that you do.

“Hi,” the fanger says, smiling lazily at Zayn, who is already beginning to regret the tequila. Zayn’s got silver charms on his wrists—crosses and stars and moons and pentagrams—hidden under the sleeves of his leather jacket, so he knows it can’t be the fanger’s voice that’s making him feel that zing of warmth in his belly, or the interested way he’s looking at Zayn, thick lashes veiling his eyes like smoke.

“I’m Harry,” the fanger says, grin stretching his generous mouth just a fraction wider, showing off a dimple in his cheek. That’s when Zayn realizes he’s been stuck staring like he really is one of those blood-junkie loons, like half the humans in this club, scars and bruises layering their necks like track marks.

“Zayn,” Zayn says back, even though that’s not the name printed on his fake ID—some of the older vamps can smell a lie, or something like that; no point in risking it, not when Zayn has so much other lying to do, with his smile and his body and the way he leans in closer, like he wants to hear better over the loud bass thump of the music.

“Zayn,” Harry echoes, eyes flickering over him again, lingering. “Can I buy you a drink, Zayn?”

Zayn lifts an eyebrow, challenging. “Or, if you like what you see, maybe we can just skip all the foreplay bullshit, yeah?” he says.

Harry laughs, a low hypnotic sound, but he doesn’t seem surprised. “You’re not like the others in here, are you?”

Zayn could say, “You have no idea,” easy and flirtatious, and it would even be true—but the tequila has loosened his tongue a little too much, and what comes out instead is: “Wow. Do you say that to all the club rats, or am I just lucky.”

He wants to kick himself immediately after, because there’s no telling how much this fanger might have bought into his own mystique, if he’ll get huffy. This is why Liam’s usually the one who takes point, does the pull: he’s good at being warm and disarming, never flinching when the monsters lay cold dead fingers on his arm—he’s never sarcastic or quippy like Zayn, never risks it.

But Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He laughs for real, head thrown back and mouth opening wide. When he looks back to Zayn, his white teeth gleaming and his canines only the slightest bit more sharp against the plush red of his lip, he says, “Oh, I think I quite like you,” and sounds like he means it.

Zayn looks at his empty shot glass, setting it down on the bar with a click that sounds decisive, even nearly swallowed as it is in the background hum of music and the buzz of voices and life.

“I need a cigarette,” Zayn says, flicking his eyes to Harry once more, and then Zayn takes a calculated risk by walking away.

It’s a risk that pays off, because when Zayn looks back over his shoulder, Harry is still wearing the same amused and knowing smile he’s had on from the start, but he’s pushed off from the bar with a roll of his hips, following after Zayn, exactly like a fish on a hook.

The alley behind the club seems deserted, but Zayn knows better than to believe that. He doesn’t look around, though, or peer into the shadows—doesn’t do anything but fall heavy against the brick wall, tucking his tongue into his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, watching Harry move towards him through slit eyes, keeping up the pretense. Zayn’s body is starting to hum, now, fueled by anticipation, and he tells himself it’s for the hunt—but he doesn’t know how much he believes that, especially when Harry doesn’t stop a few feet away but crowds in close, hands on the wall and bracketing Zayn’s shoulders, the smell of him filling up Zayn’s nose and mouth: coppery, yes, like blood, but also dust and clove, like an old library.

Zayn has to look up to meet Harry’s eyes, and when he does he lets his head tilt back against the brick, neck on display like a four-course dinner. It’s not subtle, at all; Harry seems to think so too, because he only laughs, low in his throat, and bends down to press his mouth to Zayn’s.

A kiss isn’t what Zayn was expecting, not even close—in the surprise of it he lets Harry’s tongue push past his lips, parting them until Harry’s sinking into his mouth, all slickness and improbable heat that tugs low in Zayn’s gut, confusing him. Fangers are never warm, they just aren’t—not unless they’ve fed very recently—so then why would Harry be—

“Oh, you didn’t tell me you’d brought a friend,” Harry says, after pulling back from Zayn’s mouth, his breath ghosting humidly over Zayn’s jaw and cheek.

Zayn knows before he even looks. It’s Liam, feet planted stable and strong, crossbow drawn up against his shoulders, head leaned along the sights. The risk is higher this way, with Zayn pressed all along the fanger like he is—but wooden crossbow bolts can only go so deep, and Zayn knows down to his bones that Liam won’t miss.

Liam’s not taking the shot, though—he’s hesitating. Liam never hesitates. Harry pulls back from Zayn, keeping only one hand on the wall, the other sweeping through his hair in a move that’s far too casual for a monster that’s just been cornered. Harry looks at Liam, eyes dragging over him in the same amused, interested way he’d looked at Zayn.

“Can’t say that I mind, though,” Harry’s saying approvingly, and Zayn doesn’t waste the chance. It only takes a twist of his arm to trigger the wrist-sheath, then a stake is slipping solid and reassuring into Zayn’s hand. He’s got it pressed up against Harry’s sternum faster than thought, hours spent training making the move close to instinct.

Zayn digs the sharpened tip in, just a little, just as a warning. The angle’s bad for a heart-stake, though, Zayn doesn’t have the leverage. It’s more for insurance than anything else—insurance that Zayn won’t need, just as soon as Liam takes the killshot.

Any second now.

Harry, for his part, seems monumentally unconcerned, pressing in even tighter against Zayn, till his lips are right up against Zayn’s ear. “Your lover is thinking about how we look together, if you’re wondering,” Harry murmurs, the magnetic quality of his voice tugging at Zayn again, like it’s rasping at Zayn from the inside, making him shiver.

“Li,” Zayn says, just loud enough to carry, feeling his heartbeat start to thrum in his throat with the edge of panic, the prickle of sweat rising on his skin. “Li, he’s a centenarian.”

They’re are so fucked.

They’ve been hunting together for over a year now, Liam and Zayn, and their kill record is the highest in the circles they run in; they’ve taken down dozens of fangers on their own, cleared out whole covens of them. But those were mostly all yearling vamps, the newly dead, none of them over a few decades at the oldest.

Harry’s not like those others—he can’t be, not if he can read minds like that, reaching in and picking up human thoughts like words off a page—a power like that only comes with age, to vampires a century old or more. But vampires like that don’t also tend to hang out in clubs like this, feeding off the blood junkies, mingling with the scrabbling masses. They’re too careful, normally. You don’t live for a hundred years by making stupid mistakes.

“It’s fine, Zayn,” Liam says, deep voice carrying through the night air, steady and clear. “I’ve got him; there’s nowhere he can go.”

“Who says I want to go?” Harry teases, nuzzling up against Zayn’s neck, teeth grazing against the edges of Zayn’s bruise, making him hiss. Harry doesn’t bite down, though. Liam would shoot him the instant he did, Zayn doesn’t have a single doubt about that.

“Are you going to shoot him, or what?” Zayn asks Liam, shoving at Harry with his free hand, exasperation momentarily overcoming his fear.

When he glances over at Liam, he’s got his lower lip between his teeth, chewing in a way that doesn’t bode well for Harry becoming true dead in the next five seconds.

“We’ve never caught a centie before,” Liam’s saying, slow, obviously thinking out loud. “I dunno—shouldn’t we like, try to interrogate him? He must know a lot.”

“What,” Zayn hisses, registering the smirk on Harry’s face for what it is. Zayn takes the strongest grip on his mind that he can manage, pushing away the image of Harry handcuffed to their bed with silver chains, shoving it far down deep. “Li, are you mental? He can read our thoughts, yeah? All he’ll do is play with us, then eat us.”

“To be fair,” Harry interrupts, voice rumbling with amusement, full of promise. “I wouldn’t do the eating till much later. Reckon I could go for years before getting bored of a pair like you.”

“Li, come on,” Zayn says, pulse thundering now, and he tells himself it’s because this situation has got out of his control; it’s nothing at all to do with the way Harry’s hand has fallen against Zayn’s hip, warm even through his clothes, Harry’s thumb dragging just barely under the hem of Zayn’s shirt, pressing against the tattoo Zayn’s got there, the name of God written in Arabic script. Harry shouldn’t be able to do that—or be making Zayn feel so, so—

Liam holds his stance a moment longer—for a handful of heartbeats, finger twitching over the trigger—and then he lowers his crossbow till it’s pointed at the ground, the expression on his face like Zayn’s never seen: desperate and defeated and hungry, all at once, eyes drowning dark in his face, pupils blown.

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, hoarse.

Harry turns his face into Zayn’s throat again, mouth open and hot against his skin. And Harry laughs, the low pleased sound of it vibrating from his chest into Zayn’s.


End file.
